


falling, with style

by CamouflageCamel



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Self-Acceptance, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-21 20:10:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17049791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamouflageCamel/pseuds/CamouflageCamel
Summary: It feels like flying. It feels like dreaming, like every one of his favorite things rolled into one and amplified to incredible heights. It feelsright.





	falling, with style

The suit is _tight._

Like, obviously it's tight as fuck— Miles does good work— but nobody ever mentioned that it would be so _tight_. Like, physically.

The thing is, though, that it's not exactly uncomfortable. (Well, okay, maybe that's not true: Peter had mentioned something about chafing, hadn't he? Miles is not looking forward to that.) It fits like a glove, and wraps almost seamlessly around all of his limbs, his torso, everything. He thinks there must be kevlar or carbon fiber woven into the material: it's flexible, but far more durable than regular cloth, for sure.

So it fits, and fits _well_ , despite all odds. But it’s just— it makes him feel a little...

Exposed.

May Parker (she insists he calls her “Aunt May”, which feels a little weird, but okay) waits patiently as he rolls his shoulders, hops in place experimentally, and generally gets a feel for the suit. She catches his eye in the reflection of the now-empty glass case. How she does, he has no idea: he's already got the mask on. Aunt May grins knowingly and says, with the hint of a teasing tone in her voice, “Knowing Peter, it probably took him a bit to get used to it, too. You'll be fine, Miles.”

And really, there's nothing Miles can say to that. Despite her reassurance, though, he redresses in his jackets, shorts, and shoes. “For the train,” he explains, superfluously. Forest Hills to Downtown Brooklyn is flat as hell ‘til the end, and probably a challenge to swing through. Not even the good kind of challenge, either. “It’s gonna be faster to head back into the city and go across the bridge. And—” he realizes, just as he's saying it, “there's something I've got to do.”

A leap of faith. Right. All of this means nothing if he can't do that, at the very least.

Aunt May gives him a smile, full of pride, but bittersweet. Maybe she’s remembering seeing Peter off this way, once. He wonders how long she’d known what he was, before she lost him. Miles doesn’t know, and doesn’t know how to ask, either.

“Do what you have to,” she says. “Just remember to throw a few punches for me, alright? I really liked that old house.”

Miles promises to do just that.

  
  
  


Miles is surprised when he reaches the roof of the building without getting winded. He's never really been the best athlete: his physical education scores back at Brooklyn Middle were always passing, at best. It's a strange change, being physically fit. More than that, it's super fucking weird to be _strong._ Miles has no idea what his body can do now, and that's a little unsettling, to be honest. He’d try not to think about it, except he obviously has to think about it, because there’s no room for mysteries or self-doubt where he’s heading.

“Is there any room for pants, though?” he asks himself. Maybe out loud, or maybe in his head. Things have gotten a little confusing since the spider bite. Everything’s so _loud_ , his own voice in his head above everything else. It’s another weird quirk that’s a little unnerving: hypervigilance that makes him acutely aware of not just his surroundings, but of his own thoughts, too.

He closes his eyes, wrangles his train of thought back on track, and eases himself over the side of the building, a few tentative inches at a time. He sticks, thankfully. Slides a bit, totally on purpose. Takes a deep breath, and remembers the Spider-People who need him right now; the Spider-Man who entrusted him with seeing this whole thing through. Remembers May, and his parents, and Uncle Aaron, most of all.

He jumps.

  
  


About five minutes and forty blocks later, doubt is out the window, down the street, and long forgotten. It feels like flying. It feels like dreaming, like every one of his favorite things rolled into one and amplified to incredible heights. It feels _right._

He lands on a nondescript protrusion of masonry about ten blocks from the Manhattan Bridge, and takes a moment to inhale, exhale, inhale again. Again, it’s not even that he’s really even winded: it’s the exhilaration that’s got his heart pumping. It’s strange, but getting less strange as he gets more comfortable with his powers. With himself and his own resolve, if he’s being honest.

There’s one thing that’s definitely not comfortable, though: the extra clothes. Unfortunately, there's no room for pants in his future as Spider-Man, or at least, not right this moment. It’s a neat look, Miles laments internally, but he’s got a feeling that the chafing’s only going to be exacerbated by the additional fabric. There’s some drag in effect, too: he’s gotten far enough ahead into his physics module at school to know that he’s not going he’s fast as he could be, with his hood and his shorts and everything else catching the wind.

His swing across the bridge supports his hypothesis. It’s by no-means a slow journey, and Miles nearly ends up taking a late-night swim at least twice, but by the time he’s reached the roof of a department store in DUMBO, it’s become clear enough to him that the clothes have got to go.

Reluctantly, he eases out of his jacket, first, then his hoodie. He kicks off both shoes and shimmies out of his shorts, face burning. “Why am I even embarrassed?” he mutters to himself. “There’s no one here.”

Still, though, as he catches a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the windows lining the half-finished office building opposite him, he can feel the heat in his face creep upward, until his ears are burning. Despite the changes, like the overnight growth spurt and sudden abs, he just looks so _tiny._

He thinks of Peter, leggy and a little round around the middle, but definitely a more imposing figure (even if his suit isn’t as cool). Gwen, who stands tall, even taller en pointe. The old-timey Spider-Man, who towers above his counterparts, and Peni and SP//dr, who look like they’re ripped straight from those Japanese comics about endless battles that his roommate appears to enjoy reading. Even Spider-Ham’s larger than life. But Miles… he just feels small.

As if prompted by that dismal thought, his reflection fizzles out of view between one blink and the next. It’s enough to push his heart to pump a breakbeat drum pattern against his ribs; it’s almost like a horror movie jump scare played in reverse.

After a few moments of deep breathing to calm himself, Miles slings out a web and swings to a ledge on the other building to try to get a better look. In the end, it’s the same: visibly, he just doesn’t seem to exist. Weirdly enough, though, it doesn’t affect his sense of proprioception: he’s perfectly aware of where he is in space, even if he can’t see himself.

Miles has never really been one for introspection, but his sudden, involuntary retreat into camo-mode is nearly a flashing neon sign that screams “HIDING FROM MY FEARS, DON’T @ ME”. It’s a little ironic, that becoming invisible makes his insecurities so glaringly obvious. Tiny, day-old Spider-Man, saving the city and bringing down an organized crime boss who killed his predecessor with his bare fists? He’s over here like a vampire Mulan, wondering when his non-existent reflection is going to show him what the hell he’s supposed to be. What’s he even going to do, with half a grip on his new powers and about four hours total of costumed crime-fighting?

Unbidden, Uncle Aaron’s voice answers that question.

_You’re on your way. Just keep going._

Miles stares at the place his face should be looking back at him. He looks long and hard through the window, at the bare-bones office inside that’s still being built. It’s a work in progress, right? There’s a decent foundation to hold it up, but the rest of the work is on construction workers— or, in the case of more immediately relevant circumstances, the rest is on him. It’s a start. He just has to finish it.

So he’s small— yeah, okay, it’s not ideal, but he’s got his own advantages, too. He can turn invisible. _Invisible._ He can generate his own fucking electricity. He doesn’t have years of experience, but he’s got a laundry list of kick-ass powers, a couple of grudges to work through, and a whole host of Spider-people to save. His reflection fades into existence again at this thought, seemingly bolstered by his self-confidence. Miles focuses, hard, and he fades back out just as quickly.

“See?”  he says, grinning a grin that no one would see, even if he was fully visible. “There: on command.”

Miles can do this. He’s got no choice _but_ to do this. Everyone’s counting on him, and it’s not just a metaphor this time. This universe’s Peter Parker might have passed on, but if it’s within his now-considerable power to stop it from happening again, then he’s sure as hell got to try.

The Brooklyn skyline suddenly warps, and Miles is forced to swiftly readjust his grip on the glass to keep from being bucked off the side of the building. He casts a quick glance down at the city street: light-posts and trash cans and even the asphalt is glitching and changing before his eyes. People— civilians, now— are sprinting a thousand directions as the world crumbles around them.

Miles needs to move, and fast.

He _thwips_ out another web and manages to pendulum-swing himself up to one of the higher levels of the building adjacent to him. From then, it’s a short sprint up the side of the wall to the roof, where the effects of the collapse of space  itself can be seen wreaking havoc all over downtown Brooklyn.

A telltale _chopchopchop_ sound is all the warning Miles gets before a helicopter swoops overhead, heading towards the origin of the chaos. It’s a police chopper, and Miles spares a quick thought for his father ( _“Pleasedon’tbenearFiskTower, pleasedon’tbenearFiskTower”_ ) as it goes by.

The clock is ticking, and there’s still several blocks to go. He does some quick mental math on how long it’ll take to get to his destination at what he thinks might be his peak velocity, and takes a few steps back so that he can get a running start. And then a whole fleet of _chopchopchops_ starts up behind him, and Miles gets an idea.

He pivots on one heel towards the source of the noise, and is gratified to find two more helicopters heading towards the action, almost directly overheard in three, two…

Miles jumped off the highest building in the city today. He’s thrown himself off the side of a bridge on the way over here, with nothing more than his webs to catch his fall. He’s shocked himself out of a trap Peter had spun him into back at his dorm, and he’s got invisibility on lock. But there’s one thing he hasn’t tried just yet: moving targets.

The first helicopter has already cleared the roof, but the other one is only seconds behind. Miles takes a few more steps back, does a little more mental math, and then throws caution to the wind. He runs, jumps, fires a web into the night, and sticks his target dead-center at the bottom of the helicopter’s body.

“Going up?” Miles yells to no one as he’s yanked up into the air, because Spider-Man isn’t Spider-Man without a few lame quips. (Christ, he’s got to work on those now too, right?)

The chopper sways in the air a bit, but then the pilot seems to correct themselves against the sudden change of weight on the bird. Below, hanging on for life and limb, Miles allows himself a tiny fist pump.

“Coming for you, Kingpin,” he mumbles to himself, voice lost under the rush of the wind around him and the sound of the rotors above him. Fisk’s building, only seconds away now,  flickers intensely before glitching again. Miles takes a deep breath, steels himself, and flexes his fingers; feels the electricity coursing just beneath his fingertips.

“I’m on my way,” he says, and prepares to drop.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Miles is so small and confused and trying so hard and I had to write about it. No beta, so I'll probably come back and fix some mistakes later.


End file.
